


System Error

by Solas



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, First Kiss, Hiding Medical Issues, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Protective John, Seizures, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock is illogical, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-28 21:31:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13912602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solas/pseuds/Solas
Summary: At first, Sherlock thinks of it like a grotesque fail-safe: the penalty for possessing such a brilliant mind. A congenital defect formed in the womb and dormant throughout his entire life, only to rear its ugly head now; genetics had forsaken him when weaving the vascular system into his skin. He knows that nature does not deal in fair and unfair, or hilarious irony, but it does little to prevent his mind furiously deeming it foul play.





	System Error

**Author's Note:**

> This is not the first Sherlock fic I've written but it is the first I have ever posted. It's an idea I've had lodged in my brain for far too long. I finally bit the bullet and forced my procrastinating nature aside. (Rating will increase as the story progresses).
> 
> A huge thank you to [88thParallel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadaHolm) for her beta work and fantastic suggestions. This fic has benefited greatly from your input!

The first time it happens, Sherlock is playing his violin in the living room.

His head explodes. Or at least, that’s what it feels like is happening when he wakes up on the floor with pain striking bright white across the left side of his cranium. He tries to keep his eyes open, but cannot help abide the compulsion to screw his lids shut on ever blink as the ceiling spins him into waves of nausea. Paradoxically, sitting up feels like falling down and he’s not entirely sure which way is up when he tries to move.

“Christ,” he groans, and it’s barely intelligible with how anesthetised his tongue feels. It’s not the only thing either — everything feels wrong and heavy as his senses tune in and out blearily like a broken radio.

The pounding has lost its novelty as an entirely new level of sensation once it’s been catalogued away for later reference. Cradling his head in his hands offers no reprieve, neither does threading his fingers into his hair and twisting harshly. It’s harder to think with the throbbing greedily hoarding his attention, letting it go for a second only to draw it back again. Slowly he registers the presence of two different pains, not just one, and they become more distinct the more he concentrates.

The throbbing is coming from the right side, not the left, and it feels deep like a migraine. The other is a constant undercurrent of aching pain radiating from his left temple — less easy to distinguish in the wake of the intolerable throbs. His hand ventures experimentally to his forehead and he winces at the sudden stinging sensation emanating from the wet patch he finds there. So rare it is to see his own blood these days that he examines it with detached astonishment as it comes away with his fingers.

Something has struck him — that much is clear. Exactly what, though, is still a mystery. He blinks slowly as he tries to recall the events that led him to be spread out on the carpet, but everything in his mind is slow to reboot. Concussion? Perhaps. But that does little to explain the God awful pangs of pain reaching deep into the right side of his brain.

Curious. Bewildering.

He hates not understanding things — even the littlest things — because he’s too clever to not know. If he doesn’t fill in the blanks it will irritate him like a jigsaw puzzle with missing pieces. It’s clear he’ll need assistance with this and there’s only one person capable of refocusing Sherlock’s lens when the problem is at a distance.

“John,” he calls.

John — steadfast and quick John — so dependable; Sherlock can scarcely do without him these days. It’s simply instinct to summon John when something misaligns in his head because he is ever so good at making the world seem right again. He is always on hand when Sherlock needs him, even when he doesn’t request or expect it, and he is always poised and ready for a fight, if need be. It is disappointing, then, when John’s constancy is not reassured by the usual scrape of chair legs and scuttle of feet when Sherlock summons him. The flat is eerily silent behind him and he frowns.

The extent of the vertigo is made nauseatingly clear when Sherlock attempts to turn his head to investigate. The rapid shift in equilibrium makes it feel as though his brain is lurching inside his skull, slopping around in its cerebrospinal fluid. So deeply unpleasant is the sensation that it thrashes down to his stomach, forcing the nasty taste of bile into the back of his throat. He fights gravity trying to pull him down again and seeks respite from the swaying walls and furniture by covering his eyes with his hands.

“For God’s sake,” he snarls viciously at his own helplessness, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, then rips them away and sends his blurred vision towards the ceiling. “John!”

He strains his ears for the slightest bump of feet on the floorboards upstairs but the only response is the sound of distant car horns. He thinks he may be panicking a little with the combination of unpleasant sensations all at once. His heart is thudding in his ears and the rush of blood to his aching head is clouding his judgement. John may not be here but he can still assist by facilitating a sense of order; Sherlock scours his brain for any sliver of information regarding his whereabouts to take him back to a place of calm.

John is a woefully predictable man despite believing himself capable of spontaneity — although, sometimes he really does manage it, like when he shot the cab driver and made Sherlock take extreme, thrilling notice of him — but for the most part, his routine is rigidly structured. He rarely deviates, even from his little routine proclivities: usually he announces to the living room that he is going out on the off-chance that Sherlock is listening, but he can’t recall hearing his voice. Sherlock always hears him but rarely acknowledges it in favour of begrudging the sharpness of his senses when he desires utter sensory deprivation in order to think clearly. Yet, when he tries to remember any of the day’s events, he comes up empty. He can’t recall even seeing John at all today. It doesn’t make sense; he seeks John out every morning in the same way reptiles seek the sun.

Despite all the will in the world, he cannot refer to the detailed schedule he’s drawn up in his head for John’s daily living without knowing what time it is. He doesn’t even know what day it is, come to think of it. He has lost time somehow — a whole day, by the looks of it. He pushes it to the back of his mind before it can take root.

He sits cross-legged on the floor, not trusting his own stability if he were to attempt standing. He doesn’t fancy falling over or emptying his stomach onto the carpet, so he simply waits for normality to return.

The throbbing fades slowly, as does the vertigo when he starts tentatively turning his head to examine the scene around him and decipher the facts. By the careless way his violin lies face-down beside him, with the bow tossed over to the other side, Sherlock deduces that they must have been dropped during a fall. The sharp, constant pain in his skull is clearly the result of blunt force trauma. The window is closed and locked and there are no foreign objects in his vicinity, so what struck him did not come from outside. He fell, so it is more likely that he bashed his head on something on his way to the floor rather than an object knocking him unconscious. The only surface within the circumference of the site of his landing is the desk to his right. The edge of it is severe enough to have split his skin over the point of impact.

He wonders if he fainted and why, because he doesn’t feel particularly exhausted and feels adequately watered and fed. He notes, however, that the oppressive headache that he’s had on and off for weeks was particularly unforgiving this morning. Or was it yesterday? Recently, at least. It’ll come to him when his head isn’t pounding.

The data is much too broad to draw definitive conclusions from and it leaves him frustrated. It is most likely an isolated incident so not worth too much brainwork — it’s not the first time Sherlock has fainted, after all. The pain in the right side of his brain is an unfamiliar kind but it is fleeting, so Sherlock decides to leave it filed away. He knows the dangers of dwelling and allowing dubious ideas to fester and grow unfettered. If another incident occurred and advanced the symptoms, giving him more to work with, he would revisit the issue.

It’s an unexpected blessing that John is not here to ask probing questions that Sherlock does not yet have the answers for. But if he does not get up and clear away the evidence, John will ask them anyway. This thought comes much too late and Sherlock sighs as he hears the front door open and close, then the even thump of footfalls on the staircase.

“I got the milk! We can have proper tea now,” John’s voice sounds from the hallway, thick with enthusiasm. It’s the tail end of something he must have said before parting and couldn’t wait to exclaim before even making it through the threshold. He couldn’t have been out for long then.

Sherlock twists his body around just as John’s feet arrive at the doorway. “Ah, John. There you are,” he says placidly and watches John’s brows shoot up and mouth go slack.

“Christ, Sherlock, you’re bleeding.”

He abandons the shopping bag just inside the threshold and crosses the room.

“Sound observation,” Sherlock says and extends his hand in appeal for assistance John is already clearly intent on giving him. “Help me up.”

John takes him by the hand and elbow and pulls him up with ease despite his smaller stature. The movement is so quick to Sherlock’s jellified limbs that he sways on his feet. He would have fallen forward onto his hands and knees had John not grasped him heavily by the upper arms and held him on the spot.

“Whoa, _whoa_ , Sherlock, you okay?”

When he feels steady he looks down to see the bemused look on John’s face. There are questions poised to find voice on his tongue and a hint of amusement in the slight curl of his lips. Sherlock resist the urge to chastise him for finding this funny, but pauses to consider the way John’s pupils dilate with interest. His fingers tighten as he stares up into Sherlock’s carefully stoic face instead of letting go. It’s not amusement, he decides. It’s a half-nervous, half-excited response to their close proximity.

The precise moment John realises what he’s doing flashes colourfully across his face. He lets go at once and steps back, clearing his throat conspicuously as his eyes drop to the floor between them.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says earnestly as he smoothes the wrinkles from his pyjama shirt and repositions his dressing gown over his shoulders.

Courage returns to John when his eyes flicker up again, bright and purposeful. “What happened?”

“An accident,” he lies.

“Yes, but what exactly happened?”

Sherlock considers him then: his jaw is set, brows low, shoulders squared in anticipation of bad news. When he gets like this he is exceptionally persistent — admirably so. His decision to occlude John's input is entirely justified when he pictures the illogical trappings that would come with John's very evident emotional investment. He imagines the way the concern would bloom vividly on his face, how he would have to endure endless questions, pleas for a needless hospital visit, the incessant _fussing_ that will force him to think about every unpleasant possibility before hard evidence presents itself. It is simply foolish to attempt to reason with insufficient data and a dangerous path for a man predisposed to coping with addictive substances.

“Nothing spectacular,” Sherlock mutters dismissively.

It’s not really a lie: anything he can’t remember is, by default, unspectacular. He moves past John towards the kitchen, making it plainly evident that he is finished with the discussion, but John falls into close step behind him.

“Tell me. Sherlock, _please_.”

The concern woven into each syllable reaches deep and plants tendrils that pull tight, stilling Sherlock in his movements. It’s not often that someone’s voice compels him to pause and look back, and yet he does turn on his heels to meet John’s eyes again. Sherlock hesitates. He almost never hesitates. It creeps up his spine and makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. John’s ability to force Sherlock to question himself is terrifying.

The life they share between these walls is Sherlock’s private refuge away from the chaos of the outside world. There is stillness in their domesticity, in John’s smiling face, in their shared laughter, and in their comfortable silences. It’s his favourite place to think: brainwork flows unobstructed. It’s his favourite place to _be_ , in fact, and he’s always foolishly thought it resistant to the infection of his own tendencies towards despair.

Everything else shifts uncontrollably beneath his feet and sometimes he hates that he cannot control it. But the flat is a constant and offers a sense of tranquillity he’s never known before. He steps through the threshold and sheds his carefully constructed armour and, with it, shakes off the stresses of bearing the weight of the world; such vulgar things have no place on this hallowed ground. He’s seen it happen before, when he succumbed to mindless emotion, and it nearly destroyed him every time.

Answering the call of John’s concern will shift them from their natural logarithm: John would change his comfortable patterns and so, too, would Sherlock. It is simple cause and effect — inevitable, and some things are better off the way they are. Sherlock has not spent a lifetime developing methods to shut out emotion for no good reason. Even for John, he will not surrender to the pull of it.

“Would you make me a cup of tea?” he offers instead, attempting to push John’s compulsive helpfulness onto a new path.

John takes a step forward, marking him continued intent. “Yes, I will, but after I’ve seen to the wound. It looks like it might need stitches.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Let me check anyway. I’ll clean and dress it, at least.”

Sherlock sighs heavily and considers his options. He could continue to resist and provoke unnecessary worry, or he could allow John to arrive at his own sense of closure for having done something helpful. The latter seems the most mutually beneficial, so Sherlock sits down on the sofa in silent concession. John nods to himself then goes to the kitchen to retrieve the first aid kit from under the sink, and fill a bowl with warm water and a clean cloth. He places them on the coffee table before sitting down besides them.

“This may sting a little,” John tells him as he wrings excess water from the cloth back into the bowl. Sherlock simply nods and folds his hands in his lap, leaning forward when John gestures for him to do so. It does sting. Quite a lot more than expected when coupled with the headache already over-stimulating his pain receptors. Sherlock inhales sharply and jerks away when John presses the cloth to his temple.

John smiles apologetically, “I did say.”

“I’m not a child, John,” Sherlock murmurs and scowls into the bowl of water.

“Never said you were.”

“Just get it over with, will you?”

He begins pressing and sweeping the soft material upwards across Sherlock’s highly sensitive skin, being careful to pull back when the discomfort shows on his face. The sting ebbs with every meticulous pass of John’s hand until the warmth is simply soothing. Sherlock watches him, feeling the world soften around the edges as he does so.

John is remarkably gentle for a man who could twist you into a choke hold, break your arm with ease, or shoot you dead without hesitation. He’s a constant marvel with all his contradictions, really. He wears his emotions so plainly on his face, yet usually restrains them so strictly in his actions and speech. Sometimes Sherlock wonders if John realises just how exposed his own expressions leave him. His eyes betray him always, making the pure affection he has for Sherlock utterly unambiguous in moments like this.

John only need tend to the wound and yet he submerges the cloth again when he finishes but does not relinquish it to the bowl. Instead he squeezes out the reddening water and lifts it again to Sherlock’s face to clean away the blood that had slipped down his cheek. This is not the detached care of a doctor doing what he must. No, this is much more intimate in intent. The warm caress of the fabric has Sherlock’s eyes sliding shut.

The world moves so fast from moment to moment, time moving perpetually forward. Sherlock is powerless to the rapid flow of it until John pulls him from the stream and then he’s no longer a passenger. When he’s with John, Sherlock feels suspended in time and space for the briefest moments. They are like a pocket of warmth in the cold, endless expanse and he lounges within them comfortably, seeing everything in a clarity he never thought possible. But they are far too few and are eternally slipping through his fingers as he tries to hold onto them — tries to hold onto John — but he always returns to the stream.

There’s another sharp sting that has Sherlock opening his eyes wide again and the moment is gone in an instant, as always. He mourns the loss as he watches John dabbing antiseptic around the wound with a fresh cotton ball. When he’s done with that he rummages around in his overstuffed first aid kit. Rolls of bandages, boxes of plasters, and safety pins fall over the edges and onto the table as he finally reaches the bottom and pulls out a box of Steri-Strips.

“Rather overzealous first aid kit, John. You could tend to an army with all that you’ve got in there.”

“Shut up,” John says, not unkindly, and opens up the box.

He could argue that Steri-Strips are overkill, but in his softened haze he cannot find the will. John applies the first in the middle, sticking one side down before drawing the wound together gently and smoothing the remaining side across Sherlock’s skin.

“You would need to have hit something hard with considerable force to cause an injury like this,” John muses as he peels the second strip from its backing and applies it a few centimetres above the first.

Sherlock makes a thoughtful noise, intrigued by the deduction. “How have you concluded that?” he asks as John pulls another strip free.

“This isn’t just a simple cut. It’s a laceration with heavy bruising and swelling consistent with blunt force trauma.”

Of course John would know: he’s a doctor. The bruising is surely only red beneath the skin at this point but it will begin its cycle through colours by the morning. Sherlock finds he has little desire to think about it, but it will serve as a constant reminder every time he looks in the mirror, or sees the reaction on other people’s faces.

John presses his fingers carefully over the final strip and examines his work for a moment before sitting back. His expressive face is so awash with worry that it’s almost sickening to look at. It twists strangely in Sherlock’s gut.

“This seems serious, Sherlock. Are you going to tell me what happened?” he probes yet again.

Seeing the hurt in his eyes is like staring directly into a bright light and Sherlock can stand it no longer. He feels his steady fortitude quivering as he races to his feet and moves to the centre of the room.

John does not follow as expected. His arms are moving slowly, fingers rubbing along his jeans to remove the traces of adhesive left on them. His shoulders sag visibly when he’s finished and his head tilts forwards; the posture of a defeated man. Sherlock imagines the expression on his face is devastating and is glad to be well out of its path.

He has always been under the impression that Sherlock will share with him as John does with Sherlock. It’s an unspoken agreement that Sherlock imagines plays a part of any intimate domesticity. But it is precisely that: unspoken — assumed — and Sherlock does not hold any credence for assumptions in lieu of concrete agreement. He knows that he does not owe John an explanation.

Yet the way he hunches over rouses the same twist in Sherlock’s stomach and he casts his eyes to the floor in uncommon shame. He draws his lip between his teeth and worries it slowly until a solution comes to him: there is a way to make John feel involved while Sherlock remains comfortably detached.

“Come here, John.”

The effect of his voice is visible in the way that it ripples down the muscles of John’s back, straightening his spine. Then he’s on his feet within seconds. He lingers by the table, unsure, an almost irritated expression on his face, like he’s expecting disappointment. Sherlock raises his brows and tilts his chin upwards, beckoning for John to join him. It’s obvious he doesn’t know where to look as he approaches and comes to stand beside Sherlock.

“Tell me what you think happened,” Sherlock says and John meets his eyes suddenly, widening his own in surprise at the demand.

“What — really? Why?”

“You already began your deductions with the wound, but you have yet to examine the scene to build the full picture,” Sherlock says simply, smiling in encouragement.

“You just want to correct me and make me feel stupid," John says dryly, folding his arms over his chest.

This statement hurts distantly, deep down inside Sherlock. He never intends to make John feel inferior. It’s quite the opposite, in fact: he’s put him on a pedestal above all others. John has become an intrinsic part of Sherlock’s daily life and he no longer feels complete without him. Surely that is the highest compliment he can possibly bestow.

“If you were anyone else, that would be the case,” he sighs, willing John to understand, “Yours is the only second opinion I’d ever value, John.”

John looks at him, eyes searching for a hidden lie in the lines of Sherlock’s expression, then looks away and nods to himself. “Okay.”

Sherlock watches John scan the room then, attempting to piece together the scene he’s not being made privy to. The sunlight streaming in from the window illuminates his cerulean eyes, so clear and deep, like the ocean. They are calm now but when he is angered, they are dark and unforgiving like a great tempest and Sherlock feels like a boat braving a tidal wave when he stares back.

“You were playing the violin — it’s still on the floor. You’d never be so careless as to put your violin on the floor, so you must have dropped it unintentionally. So you passed out there in the window, between the violin and the bow.” He gestures towards the floor and pauses, pursing his lips as he so often does when in thought. “Your head struck something hard on your way down and the only surface within reach is your desk. You must have turned around first to hit that side of your head though. So you turned to face the room and fell, clipped your head on the desk and ended up on your back with the change in velocity and angle.”

Sherlock cannot help but feel impressed by the way John digests and condenses the events so efficiently. He’s a quick study. “Very good, John. I deduced the same scenario to be the most likely when I awoke,” Sherlock says, and realises his mistake immediately.

“You _deduced_? So you don’t remember?” John rounds on him, frustrated, “You could have a concussion, Sherlock. Is there anything else you’re downplaying or simply lying about?”

“I’m fine, John, honestly,” Sherlock says. He’s well aware of the reassuring power of touch, especially when it is so rare between them, so places his hand on John’s shoulder. He’s unsurprised when John’s eyes flicker to this new gesture as if not quite believing it true. “You needn’t worry.”

“But you’ve fainted. That’s not typically a sign of wellness, Sherlock,” he relents, “When was the last time you ate a meal — a proper meal, not Bakewell tarts or plain toast?”

Sherlock has eaten properly, as far as he could tell by the lack of hunger, but John has inadvertently offered a distraction he knows he will not be able to refuse.

“Let’s go for dinner tonight. Angelo’s.”

“What?” he croaks.

“You want me to eat a ‘proper meal’, so we’re going out tonight.”

John stares at him, utterly aghast and then gives in with a wary smile. _  
_

“Okay. Okay, we’ll go out.”

 


End file.
